Good Night, Little King
by justrandomspnstuff
Summary: At the age of six, Lucifer visits Sam, his future vessel.


The heater ticked and groaned, breathing luke-warm air across Sam's face, small tufts of hair flicking up an down on his forehead. Dad was on a hunt. Dean had left earlier to get food. But it had grown dark since his brother had left, shadowed fingers crawling across the sky, cutting out the light.

Sam clutched his knees, tucking them up near his armpits, his head ducked between his legs. And, he felt like jumping when he heard the ticks and grinds of the heater next to where he sat on the floor, even if it was nothing but musty air.

It had been too long. Dean should be home by now. Dean, he thought, his heart beat jerking wildly in his chest. Where are you?

Part of Sam wanted to leave, to go find Dean. To call Dad—if only he had his number. But the heater blew harder with the thumps in his chest and his skin started to bubble with goosebumps. And he wished he were brave instead of frozen. But his knees locked with fear, and his belly churned, empty and unsustained. He closed his eyes. Tight. He pulled at his jeans with his small fists and forced himself to breathe through his nose.

Dean, he thought again, tears starting to sting his lashes, plastering them to his cheeks.

Suddenly, the room felt smaller. Darker. Even with his eyes closed, Sam could sense it—the way the space pushed against itself, clamoring for dominance. And, where there should only be the sound of the shoddy heater, instead, there was a wind, wild and chaotic like a gale on the ocean that beat up against a sail. It flooded Sam's ears, seizing his small frame while his fingers clenched tighter on the rough fabric, turning the tips of his skin cherry red in irritation.

"Dean?" he whispered, knowing his brother was far away, but hoping somehow he could hear him anyway. Could pick him up like he used to and tell him monsters weren't real.

But they were. They must be. Because Sam could finally understand it wasn't wind. They were giant breaths, curling around Sam's tiny frame, pulling heat from the room with every suck, and breathing chilling cold with every exhale.

And finally, Sam forced his eyes open, blinking through the smudges of water that still glossed his corneas until the picture was clear. Only the light from the bathroom lit the black vines of shadows that twisted and tangled against the walls, plunging into patterns of chaos as they crept up, claiming every inch of the once-yellow wallpaper.

Sam's breath hitched. And he plead again, his voice small and wavering, his body a rigid block now, only his eyes moving to rove across the blackness overtaking the motel room:

"Dean," Sam plead to the empty room.

Then, on the wind, he heard it: an answer. Not one voice, but many, like a radio frequency trying to tune itself from the chaos into a focused wavelength. Then, the chorus of different-pitched voices calmed, each dropping away until there was only one. One quiet voice, carried on the wind, or made by it:

"Sam," it whispered, the sound reverberating in Sam's small, six-year-old chest. Not Dean, but someone else, talking to him through the black, his voice slow and winding like a serpent.

"You're just as I imagined," said the voice in awe, and Sam watched with wide eyes as the blackness curled away from the wall, reaching and swirling through the air. Sam was frozen as he watched the tenticle of shadow inch forward to slowly overtake the space between them. And it was sparking, now, flashes of lightening underneath the translucent black as it reached slowly forward. And then, the black finger ran along Sam's jaw, cold like a piece of ice, but dry. Sam shivered, and he felt the thing smile, even if he couldn't see it.

Dean, Sam plead again, but the thing laughed. Hollow, and deep, the sound seizing a piece of Sam and plunging his fear into something darker. Deeper.

And the thing was circling him now, reaching for him and wrapping him tight with cold.

"What do you want?" Sam asked, his voice shaky. And he realized he was afraid to die. Even if to live meant being alone in the motel room in the quiet pitch black with no Dean or Dad.

"Please," he plead, when the black didn't respond.

Sam was surprised when, suddenly, the shadow arrested its motion at this, black ringing him like tiny halos around his body, but no longer touching him. The thing had listened. To him.

"Are you going to kill me?" Sam asked it, growing bolder with the idea that he might be able to reason with the dark cloud.

"Oh no, Sam," the thing said, its tone eerily reverent. "I wouldn't ever hurt you."

Sam's fingers were aching now with how hard he was clutching at his knees, and his face felt raw with the salt from his tears.

"Wh-why are you here?" Sam stuttered, wishing the thing would back off a little. It did, creating a larger space between them.

"Because," said the cloud, "I came to see my little king." And, the cloud was back in close quarters, ignoring this time the way that Sam's body clenched up at the intrusion of space. Then, the black was following the lines of his body. Following along Sam's arms, shoulders and the tips of his ears, then, finally running through his hair, making Sam shiver and pull his knees closer to his chest.

"I'm not a king," Sam whispered, his heart propelling blood through his body so fast now, he could feel the pulses in his ears, fingertips and toes.

And Sam could feel the thing smile again. "You're my king," it said. "My vessel."

Sam looked at his naked toes, trying to settle his breaths.

"Are you here to take me away?" he asked. The sounds from the heater were faint now, drowned out in the hum and whoosh of the halos moving around his body.

"Not today," said the shadow, its voice softer now. "Someday, though, we'll do great things, Sammy."

Sam shuddered when the thing used Dean's nickname.

"Are you—are you going to hurt Dean?" Sam asked quietly.

"Not if you don't want me to," the thing replied.

Sam's shoulders started to slacken a little at this, though his heart was still beating fast.

"I don't want you to," said Sam's voice, small, but strong.

The cloud pulsed, growing bolder as it rested on Sam's shoulders, the boy becoming more acclimated with the chill of it.

"Then I won't," said the thing. And Sam found himself strangely soothed by the response, his fingers relaxing against his knees, divots of trust starting to to chink their way into his frozen form.

"Who are you?" Sam asked, finding himself strangely calm as the thing slowly came closer, enclosing more and more of him in the comforting cloud of cold.

But the thing didn't answer right away, instead, it reached out, running along Sam's fingers, back and forth until the boy unclenched the tension held there. It ran a finger lightly up and down Sam's spine, the cold dipping in each notch 'till Sam collapsed as he relaxed. But the cloud was there to grab his stomach, catching him and lifting him up. Sam watched as the thing lifted him in the air, holding him like Dean would when he was little as he floated off the ground. And the thing walked him over to the bed, shushing him in soothing tones, the cold familiar now as it wafted across his nose with every breath.

And the blackness pushed at Sam's eyelids, making them heavy as they fell closed. He yawned, stretching and relaxing, almost forgetting why he'd been so scared as his heartbeat tumbled in lazy, sleepy rhythms in his chest.

"Goodbye, Sam," said the thing, pulsing gently beside him. "Until we meet again." And Sam could feel himself grow warmer as the thing slowly started to fade away.

"Wait," Sam mumbled sleepily, eyes fluttering open. "You didn't tell me who you are."

Then, the cold was close, next to his ear.

"Lucifer," the thing whispered. And some part, deep down inside of Sam probably knew he should be afraid. But instead, he was calm as he felt his breath cloud up with the cold.

"Good night Lucifer," Sam whispered to the pillow.

Then, on the wind: "Good night, little king."

And then, Sam was asleep, dreaming of ice and long shadowy pools of water, frozen with bitter wind.

He didn't hear Dean come in. Didn't know that Dean had heard him that night, bidding the devil good night. Didn't know that Dean had stood there in the end, watching, dropping the doughnuts on the floor that he'd worked so hard to steal for Sammy. Sam didn't see the way that Dean leaned over his little brother's small frame, stroking his hair in his sleep, the older brother's skin clammy with fear as he vowed he'd never tell their dad. Would never let him know the way that Sammy's eyes glowed red, his voice dark like a demon. And Dean looked down at his brother's peaceful, sleeping form, feeling the chill of his skin underneath him. Then, Dean noticed the dry tear tracks on Sam's face. Dean used his thumb to gently wipe at them.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy," Dean whispered, shuddering as he felt Sam's cold form underneath him. "I'll never leave you again."


End file.
